


Look After You

by Princess_Cocoa



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Explanation of wounds, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Abuse, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/pseuds/Princess_Cocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt found <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12383457#cmt12383457">here</a></p><p>"If nothing else, Douglas Richardson is not falling for a slave, not falling for <i>Martin</i> of all people."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this to the meme a couple days ago and due to the lovely response it's gotten, I'm transferring it over here. Check the tags for warnings as I'll only be adding a warning note for one chapter in this entire story.
> 
> As always, please excuse the American-isms. I've changed the bigger things that I could find but small spelling differences I've left alone. Also remember that I don't have a beta - if you see an error, feel free to let me know, either through here or through my [tumblr](princesscocoa.tumblr.com)

“On time today, then, are we, Douglas?” Herc asks as he walks through the door to the portacabin and hangs his jacket. Though he places it like a question, the knowing look in his eyes betrays him - he understands perfectly well why Douglas is here early today.   
  
Douglas leans back in his chair, not particularly keen to be the recipient of any form of pity or commiseration the other pilot might provide. It’s not as if it’s his first divorce, after all.   
  
“Unfortunately I was kicked out of my own home today; Elise was coming over with some of her friends to retrieve the last of her things,” Douglas says, completely at ease.   
  
“I never did hear what exactly you got from all this,” Herc says with the air of camaraderie only an experienced divorcee can manage. “You got to keep the house? That’s surprising.”   
  
Douglas eyes him suspiciously - he’s confused about what Herc is trying to glean from this conversation. He decides, however, that the man has no ulterior motives so he shrugs and says, “The house, most of the furniture...I came out of this pretty clean. Whatever she’s playing at, she’s losing. The only things she was intent on obtaining were the slaves.”  
  
Herc purses his lips as his eyebrows shoot up. The expression reminds Douglas of a surprised duck, which amuses him to no end. He can tell he’s hit a nerve, though: Herc isn’t exactly fond of slavery, though he won’t do anything about it. No, Hercules Shipwright is content with displaying disdain and contempt for slave owners but won’t work at all to free them.   
  
“However will you survive,” he says, surprisingly with only a hint of sarcasm peeking through his tone.   
  
Douglas raises an eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean by that?”  
  
“Please, Douglas,” Herc says while rolling his eyes. “You had six slaves, all of which maintained that ridiculously large house of yours and who cooked for you. What do you expect to do now that they’re gone? Slaves don’t come cheap anymore, especially not to a recently divorced pilot with a second foreboding alimony in his near future.”  
  
“Hercules, I’m a forty-six year old man, I know how to prepare a meal and how to properly clean a home.” He scoffs. “Six slaves aren’t exactly a great loss. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Herc shrugs and looks away, directing his attention to the large pile of paperwork on his desk. “Whatever you say, oh First Officer mine.”  
Douglas clenches his teeth and turns back to his own papers. It’s going to be a long day, at this rate.  
  
Surprisingly enough, however, Herc drops the subject entirely once Arthur runs in moments later, pretending to be an aeroplane. Carolyn strides in after her son, looking for all the world as if she deserves to have a personal storm cloud above her head.   
  
“Oh look, both my useless pilots here on time today,” she says testily.   
  
“Ah, Carolyn, lovely to see you as well on this fine morning. Might I ask who or what we have to thank for your cheery mood?” Herc asks, amusement coloring his voice.   
  
“Can it, Hercules, I am not in the mood today.”  
  
“Oh and whyever not? Is our idiosyncratic passenger not cooperating? Or perhaps it’s something else entirely.”  
  
Carolyn hangs her jacket and grabs Arthur to halt his crazed running in one fluid motion. “Here’s an idea, why don’t the pilots allow the grownups, namely: me, to take care of the business while they continue to do the work they were supposed to have done three weeks ago. Does that sound good?”  
  
Herc closes his eyes and raises his hands, strategically conceding. Douglas smiles from where he’s been sitting. He won’t admit it, but the two have a certain underlying chemistry that will never cease to entertain him. If not for Herc’s wife - his fourth now - he suspects they may make an interesting couple.   
  
“Speaking of paperwork, Carolyn, I’m done,” Douglas says as he stands to leave. “I figure with your sour mood, we won’t actually be flying today so I’m going to make my way over to the nearest pub.”  
  
Carolyn huffs. “Now see here, Douglas, you won’t be leaving until I allow you to. Strangely enough, I haven’t yet. Not to mention the fact that it’s only one in the afternoon. While I don’t like to intrude on my pilot’s personal lives, nor do I care enough to want to do so, I have an obligation as a boss who doesn’t want her employee to inconveniently find himself in jail by tonight to inform you of basic social protocol. Most people, Douglas - and by most I mean all normal humans - aren’t drunk by three p.m.”  
  
Douglas throws on his jacket as she talks. “Drunk? I’m wounded, Carolyn. Your faith in my abilities to hold my liquor is obviously not quite at the level it should be.”  
  
“Douglas...”  
  
“Frankly, I deserve a drink and I’m going to have one. Good afternoon, Carolyn, I will see you in three days.”   
  
He turns and closes the door, muffling the sounds of Arthur’s goodbye and effectively cutting off Carolyn’s protest.   
  


* * *

  
Douglas truly did deserve a drink; in fact, he deserved at least four or five. Which is why nearly four hours later he found himself walking in the vague direction of his house, having had his car keys taken from him.   
  
Honestly, though, he’s not even that drunk. He’s perfectly capable of driving in this state - he’s done it plenty of times before. Nonetheless, the proprietor of the small bar refused to let him go without a fight. He reaches his household a half an hour later, taking much too long to open the door with his cold-numbed fingers.  
  
For some reason, he expects to find a mess of some sort: Elise’s last act of spite before officially walking out of his life forever. Instead, he finds the place spotless, just as he’d left it this morning.   
  
He throws his keys down and heads for the coffee machine, wasting no time in getting it started before he collapses at the island as he waits.   
  
If there’s one thing he misses, it’s when Luisa would have his coffee ready for him upon arrival, handing it over without a word as he entered, no matter what time that may have been. There’s no use in lamenting about it now, though. They’re all gone with Elise, and he’s fine with it. He, frankly, couldn’t care less.   
  
The machine beeps its completion and he shuffles over to grab it up and slurp it down on his way to the couch. He’s not in the mood to do much else besides watch crap telly this evening. Eventually, as he flips mindlessly through the channels, he falls asleep, some of the remaining coffee spilling onto the floor as he tilts sideways into unconsciousness.

~*~

The next morning Douglas finds himself with a much larger hangover than he’d originally anticipated and an extremely sticky sock. Opening bleary eyes, Douglas inspects his foot to find that it’s half-drenched in some of the spilled coffee from last night. He growls incoherently, preparing to call Nicholas to come clean up the spot on the pristine white carpet before he catches himself. Nicholas, like Luisa, is gone.   
  
He sighs as he lifts himself slowly to a sitting position. He ponders, for a moment, where the proper cleaning supplies for this would be before he stands and makes his way to the hallway closet. However, even after a good fifteen minutes, the spot on the carpet refuses to come away and he’s left weary and severely annoyed.   
  
Throwing the rag down, Douglas makes his way to his bedroom. He’ll simply deal with the spot later when he has time and energy to steam clean it as he needs to. He leaves his clothes strewn behind him as he makes his way to the bathroom to take a long, relaxing bath.   
  
Later, Douglas once again finds himself on the couch, this time with a book and a cup of tea (not as good as Luisa makes, but he won’t admit that to himself). He spends his entire free afternoon reading. It takes him until about six o’clock to realize that he doesn’t smell any food being prepared. He stands with a groan, walking to the kitchen to prepare his own dinner for the first time in years.   
  
He’d told Herc that he’s fully capable of taking care of himself, and he believes that. The most difficult part of this whole process will be remembering that he has to do so in the first place; thereby ridding himself of long-standing instinct and tradition.   
  
He’d had all of his slaves since the middle of his first marriage nearly twelve years before. Eventually, his first wife had become entranced by the fight for freedom of slaves and left him when she realized he wasn’t interested in activism. He kept them and moved on to bigger and better things.  
  
Luisa and Cameron had taken care of the kitchen and food while Nicholas and Timothy tended to the inside of the house, leaving Becky and Serah to care for the yard.   
  
He hadn’t grown particularly attached to any one of them, though now that they’re gone he’s slowly coming to appreciate all that they did. He sits with his meagre bowl of pasta and garlic bread and contemplates all that he has to take care of now. Not surprisingly, he doesn’t like the numbers.   
  
Slowly, it’s dawning on him just how much work was covered by the six beings that he had owned. It’s nothing he can’t handle, it just meant less time lounging and more time working.   
  
He finishes his meal and places the dishes in the dishwasher before going upstairs to pick up his discarded clothes. After placing those in what he’s now deemed the “dirty basket” he returns to the living room, sitting himself on the couch. The stain from before can wait until there’s more to clean, he decides.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Upon returning from his flight to India a few days later, Douglas sees that there is now, in fact, more to clean. The mess, as messes are want to do, has expanded practically overnight: the grass needs to be cut, the flowers watered, the dishes done, and he’s yet to have any food that day.   
  
Being the immaculate man that he is, Douglas cannot just let this sit. He rushes through the house doing laundry, vacuuming, cleaning the master bathroom, and washing some of the dishes before he realizes he’s completely exhausted. The best way to resolve this issue, he realizes, would be to take care of these things as they happen, but he knows he never will.   
  
Douglas Richardson is nothing if not meticulous about free time and his overall schedule. He hates wasting time doing laundry when there are only a few pairs of pants to be washed. Furthermore, he refuses to clean a bathroom unless it becomes obviously dirty to him - at which point it’s likely not clean enough for him to be performing acts of hygiene in, anyway.  
  
Douglas, though loathe to admit it, is quickly realizing that Hercules was correct in his assumption of him. He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself - of basic upkeep - but he’s simply not used to it. No, Douglas doesn’t want to nor will he ever make enough time to keep things tidy; it’s simply a notion that he can’t become accustomed to. And, vain as he is (though unwilling to admit such a fact), that simply will not do.   
  
Unfortunately, though, Douglas lacks the funds for a new force of slaves...especially in this economy where inflation and monopolies run rampant. He hardly has the means to buy a single one on its own. In fact, he’s nearly sure that he wouldn’t be able to afford one no matter what auction house he attends.   
  
What he does have, however, is a connection. Well, to be honest, he has many connections. But only one that can get him a slave dirt cheap. Maybe even free.   
  
He rummages through his bag for his phone, quickly pulling up the number from memory and calling it without a second thought. It rings for several long seconds before the person on the other line finally picks up.   
  
“Douglas! My, what a surprise.”  
  
Douglas rolls his eyes and sits down. “No need for small talk, Jason, I want to call in a favor.”  
  
Immediately Jason’s voice darkens. He speaks slowly. “Now see here, Douglas, you know what I do bu-”  
  
Impatient, Douglas cuts him off. “I’m not interested in any of your services besides one. I need a slave.”  
  
The line is silent for a moment as Jason ponders his request.   
  
“Why are you calling me specifically?”  
  
“I don’t have the funds right now to go through the auction houses. I need one cheap, preferably free. You owe me, Jason, and I figured you could use your particular skillset to find me one.”  
  
The man on the other line smacks his lips. Douglas can practically see him searching for his books on the subject, running a hand through his sparse hair at the same time.   
  
“Look, Douglas, getting a slave cheap ain’t easy. That’s high profile black market stuff...”  
  
“All I need is a one with two legs, two arms, and with the ability to do some basic housework, nothing more.”  
  
“Nothing more? Are you sure? I mean, I just heard about your divorce and all...you sure you won’t be wantin-”  
  
Douglas cuts him off again. While he’s not interested in the debate about slave rights, there is one thing that he abhors about the slave trade: sex slaves. He won’t let Jason try to sell him one, no matter how cheap.  
  
“What did I just say, Jason? Housework, that’s it. Can you help me or not?”  
  
Jason is quiet again. Douglas can hear pages being flipped, a keyboard being typed on. He sighs. “This ain’t gonna be nice for me, Douglas. You know that? If I get you one you’ll consider all debts that I owe to you paid in full, you got it?”  
  
For the second time in the conversation, Douglas rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, fine. You’ve got one then?”  
  
“Mmm yeah, I think I do. Two legs, two arms. Primarily housework. I’ll have it at your place in the morning.”  
  
“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then, Jason.”  
  
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says as Douglas hangs up.  
  


* * *

  
Nearly everyone in the neighborhood has at least one slave. Many of his neighbors get a new one every few months, either because one has died or because they feel they need one. Slaves are easily one of the best ways to display one’s wealth. Although Douglas knows this, he can’t help but feel uneasy as Jason’s red Porsche rolls to a stop at the kerb.   
  
He closes the curtains and waits patiently at the door for Jason to knock; he’d rather do all the business in the comfort of his own house rather than outside where anyone might see.   
  
It takes longer than he’d anticipated, but eventually, the doorbell rings. Douglas waits for a few moments to answer, making sure he doesn’t seem too anxious for Jason to arrive. When he finally opens the door, he’s not sure how to feel about what he sees.   
  
The slave is standing just behind and to the right side of Jason, head down, wrists tied with thick rope and a solid standard black collar wrapped around its neck. The first thing that catches Douglas’s eye is the bright ginger hair, the mussed curls hanging every which way. The next is that it’s small, nearly a full foot shorter than Douglas himself.   
  
Jason beams at him. “‘s name’s Martin, if you care.”  
  
The slave, er, Martin, doesn’t react to hearing its name besides lowering its head even further. Upon closer inspection, Douglas can see that it’s shaking profusely though trying to hide it. Its clothes are the usual drabby kind found on a slave fresh out of the shops: loose black t-shirt, a torn pair of jeans, and a worn pair of shoes. The t-shirt leaves the slave’s bruised and scarred arms in plain sight, indicating that he’s just recently left his last master - not exactly what Douglas was expecting.   
  
Douglas moves backward, gesturing for them to come in. Jason enters, pulling the slave along with him. That’s when Douglas notices the limp. It’s not profound, but enough to affect the slave’s speed.   
  
He grinds his teeth together; if this is what Jason considers paying back his debt to him he’s severely mistaken.   
  
Jason sits at the kitchen island while the slave kneels behind him, never making a sound even as Douglas sees a look of pain cross its face as it catches its bad leg. Douglas closes the door and fixes Jason with one of his most piercing glares.   
  
“What the hell is this, then?” His booming voice causing the shaking boy to flinch.   
  
Jason has the gall to look offended. “It’s your slave, Douglas, or did I hear you wrong when you said you wanted one? It’s got two arms and two legs just like you asked.”  
  
Douglas curls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his anger. “I figured you would be able to understand that when I said that, I expected the slave to be fully functional. This one’s obviously abused and terrified, not to mention painfully slow thanks to its leg. I suppose I overestimated your intelligence. I need one to do housework, not one that needs me to watch over its every move.”  
  
Jason stands, leaving the slave on the floor. “Now see here, Douglas, you asked for a slave, I got you one. So its last owner was a bit of a rough-houser, so what? It’s only had one previous owner, it’s in its early twenties, and its leg may heal soon, given time. You asked, and I provided, that’s my business.”  
  
“You provided one that’s half dead. I’m surprised it wasn’t killed out of mercy,” Douglas nearly shouts.   
  
“Kill it if you want to, then. It’s yours now. And did I mention that it’s free? If you want what you consider a respectable slave, if one even exists, you can buy it yourself. This here is a gift and a damn good one. It’s perfectly useful, it just needs to get used to the place.”  
  
Douglas scoffs and looks at the slave again, now shaking even more as the shouting goes on around it. He sighs and walks forward, yanking the slave to its feet.   
  
“Fine. Fine,” Douglas says, shooing Jason away. “You can leave then.”  
  
Jason looks as if he wants to shake hands, but thinks better of it before he turns and sweeps out the door. He leaves the remote to Martin’s collar on the kitchen table as he turns to say one more thing.   
  
“Don’t call me again, Douglas. I’ve repaid my debt with this.”  
  
“Mhm whatever you say. Goodbye Jason.”  
  
The door shuts and Douglas turns back to the slave. He reaches forward and unwinds the rope from its shredded wrists.   
  
“Come on, then,” he sighs. “I’ll show you your quarters and then give you a list of things I need done. I expect them to be done nearly everyday. Leave the cooking to me, I actually like doing so, unless I’m coming home late. You can cook, can’t you?”  
  
“Yes, Master,” it whispers, voice strained.  
  
“Oh good, it speaks. I’ll let you know when I require you to cook. Otherwise you are responsible solely for keeping the house tidy and for yardwork.”  
  
The slave is silent as it follows Douglas up the stairs.  
  
“You can speak you know. Questions, things I should know...I want to hear them now.”  
  
The slave opens its mouth as if to say something before shaking its head. “There’s nothing, sir.”  
  
Douglas lets out a huff of breath through his nose. “Right then.” He leads them down the corridor and opens the door to a sparse room filled with six cots.   
  
“I haven’t been in here since my wife left with the slaves,” he says. “I figured she would’ve taken these. Better for you, then.” He pushes five of the makeshift beds against the wall, stacking one on top of another as necessary. “This is your bed, you sleep here whenever you’re tired. I don’t require you to be awake whenever I am, I just want you to get things done. As long as you’ve got your duties taken care of, you can sleep as you like.”  
  
The slave looks surprised and slightly suspicious.   
  
“If you’ve got a question, spit it out,” Douglas snaps.  
  
The slave begins shaking again as it speaks. “Thi-this entire room is mine? Er, sir?”  
  
Douglas rolls his eyes. “Well yes, that’s what I said isn’t it. Where did you sleep in your last house?”  
  
It looks away.  
  
He waits, but when no answer is forthcoming he tries again. “I asked you a question, slave, now answer it.”  
  
It purses its lips but eventually speaks. “When I was allowed to, uh, allowed to sleep, sir, it would be at the, um, the foot of Master’s bed.”  
  
Douglas’s eyes narrow. “Jason says you’re a house slave.”  
  
“P-p-primarily, sir. I can be whatever you like, whenever you want.”  
  
Crinkling his nose in disgust, Douglas moves to leave the room. “There will be none of that, I assure you. Get comfortable, I’ll be back with your chores.”  
  
It nods. “Yes sir.”  
  
He closes the door behind him and makes his way to the kitchen where he’s left the list. Douglas knows that compared to most, he’s a kind owner. He doesn’t like to dwell on the horrors that happen behind closed doors; he’s seen enough body bags leave his neighbors’ to know that it’s not pretty.   
  
His anger, however, is overriding his benevolence. Normally he might try to help a new slave get set in, maybe even use some of his partial medical knowledge to tend to its wounds from previous owners. Now, though, he’s content with just letting the boy get used to the place on his own.   
  
Worse comes to worse, he can sell it in two month’s time; he can claim that he found the slave abandoned. That, of course, is the cutoff time; when an abandoned slave can become someone else’s property if not collected by the original owner by then. By that time, some of Martin’s most recent wounds will have healed and he can pull a good price from it.  
  
He heaves a sigh as he pulls the list of chores from its drawer. After some consideration, he grabs a glass of water to give to the boy as well. He may be angry but there’s no reason to scare it further. On his way out of the kitchen, he grabs the remote, placing his thumb on the provided space as identification for future use.   
  
While he walks he notes from the remote that the collar is an older model, only set up with the usual, basic chemicals: a tranquilizer, adrenaline, and the infamous “kill switch”. Below all of that is the unlocking mechanism - small, looking as if it was placed there purely by necessity and not for usefulness. He puts it in his pocket for safekeeping, making a mental note to store it in a more secure location later.  
  
As he approaches the room, Douglas slows down. Behind the closed door he can hear the unmistakable sounds of sobs. He closes his eyes, unprepared to deal with this. He hates buying slaves as abused as Martin for this reason, especially. While Douglas is perfectly able to comfort, he feels distinctly out of place doing so with his slaves, specifically new ones.   
  
After several seconds, Douglas makes a decision and opens the door, startling the slave. He surveys the scene inside. The boy is sitting on the cot, red and splotchy face buried in its hands. It lifts its head, teary eyes wide when the door opens. Martin quickly turns away, accidentally having made eye contact with Douglas.   
  
“I’m s-s-so-sorry, sir. I can contro-ol myself I s-s-swear.” Its stuttering is made even worse by the crying.  
  
Douglas takes a breath. “I thought I told you to inform me if there was anything I should know. That includes things that are bothering you. You can’t properly do work if you’re upset about something.”  
  
The slave wipes its eyes and hangs its head. “I apologize, sir,” it murmurs. “I-it won’t happen again.”  
  
Douglas purses his lips but says no more. He makes to hand it the items he brought but when he moves, the slave flinches back so violently that it nearly falls of the cot.   
  
“Oh for god’s sake,” Douglas snaps, setting the notebook on the bed and the water on a nearby table. “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
Another tear falls as it nods, reaching out shakily to grab the notepad.   
  
“That water’s for you. I won’t have you becoming dehydrated. My house is quite large which is why I don’t have a separate house for my slaves; there’s more than enough room for you. There’s a kitchenette down the hall with an extra fridge but I don’t care which kitchen you get your food from. I might as well do the shopping as well since I doubt you can carry much in your state. If you get something from the main kitchen or if you run out of supplies in your own, leave me a note. Do you understand?”  
  
The boy nods vigorously, not looking away from the list.   
  
“They do still teach slaves to read at the boarding houses, don’t they?”  
  
A small nod.   
  
“Good. Is that too much for you to handle in your state?”  
  
The slave’s hands curl into loose fists as it thinks. “Er, no, sir. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Douglas gives him a dubious look but doesn’t question it. “Fine,” he says. “Those are all things you need to keep maintained, not all things you need to do today. I have a flight tomorrow, so I expect it all to be handled by the time I return.”  
  
Martin’s head lifts minutely at the word ‘flight’ but the slave doesn’t say anything besides, “I understand, sir.”  
  
Douglas lifts an eyebrow but says no more on the subject. “I’m making myself breakfast, you eat whenever you want. I’ll be home all day but I don’t want to be disturbed.” He closes the door before Martin even has the chance to respond.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Douglas finds himself at the portacabin nearly on time for the second time in as many weeks. Hercules, of course, notices.   
  
“Ah, Douglas, on time again. We should have a plaque made to commemorate this very special occasion.”  
  
“It’s a beautiful day; I thought I’d take a drive this morning. That I’m here early is merely a happy coincidence and not at all planned.”  
  
Herc smirks. “I’m sure.”  
  
Douglas sits down, pulling a newly-purchased cookbook from his bag. He leans back, placing his feet on the desk as he starts to read.   
  
“I see this little ‘drive’ this morning included a stop at the shops.”  
  
Douglas raises his head. “Hm?” He looks at his book, realizing that it must seem unusual. “Oh, yes. Having not cooked in over a decade has left my skills a touch rusty. Besides, reheated noodles are getting old.”  
  
Herc sits up and crosses his arms. “So how is the slaveless life, Douglas? As easy as you predicted?”  
  
Hesitating uncharacteristically, Douglas returns his attention to his book. “Nonexistent, actually.”  
  
“Oh come now, it can’t be that bad.”  
  
Douglas flips a page. “Nonexistent in the fact that an old friend found an abandoned slave and, having no need for it, gave it to me.” Upon finishing, Douglas looks up, watching Herc’s narrowed eyes warily.  
  
“Abandoned, indeed. How charitable.”  
  
Douglas returns his attention to his book, choosing not to comment. Herc knows about Douglas’s dubious side businesses, so he’s likely determined the nature of this interaction. All the same, there’s no need for him to perpetuate any suspiciousness.   
  
“Douglas what the hell do you think you’re doing,” Carolyn asks as she walks out from her office.   
  
“Expanding my mind, Carolyn. And you?”  
  
“Becoming increasingly eager to fire a certain first officer unless he actually gets some work done.”  
  
“Carolyn, the customer arrives in twenty minutes, what could I possibly get done? Herc’s already prepared the plane and Arthur’s out there vacuuming as we speak.”  
  
Carolyn throws up her hands in exasperation. “You could at least start your paperwork, as you have a nice pile just sitting there. Then again, I suppose the great Douglas Richardson cannot be arsed to actually do the work he was hired for.”  
  
“Quite right,” Douglas says, returning once again to the cookbook.   
  
“What book are you hiding behind that cover?” Carolyn asks.  
  
Douglas looks up, testily smacking his book on the table, annoyed at having been interrupted again. "I can assure you that the book with the cover reading '101 Easy Meals' is, in fact, a book containing one hundred and one meal recipes."  
  
"That can't be right. Douglas Richardson, the richest most prideful man I know, making his own meals?" Carolyn scoffs.   
  
From his desk, Herc pipes up. "Actually, Carolyn, Douglas is no longer as rich as he might have you believe. He's been reduced to having only one slave."  
  
Carolyn turns, a surprised look on her face. "One slave? How are you surviving?"  
  
Grinding his teeth, Douglas says, "Why, pray tell, does everyone say that? I am a fully functioning adult, I can handle myself."  
  
"Because," Carolyn says, "if you truly were able to handle yourself, you wouldn't need a slave."   
  
Carolyn had owned slaves before, but in order to keep MJN afloat, she'd sold them all. While she had no qualms with owning them, she was very self-reliant. Her motto was and still is that a person shouldn't make a slave do something they wouldn't be willing to do themselves.   
  
"Trust me when I say that having Martin around is tantamount to not having a slave at all. The boy is all but useless.”  
  
“Martin?”  
  
“Useless?”  
  
Herc and Carolyn speak at the same time and each turn to him expectantly with nearly the same expression. Douglas would laugh if he wasn’t so annoyed.   
  
“Yes, its name is Martin. I told you, Herc, that it was abandoned and it shows. It’s had a rough past and is a bit of a cripple at the moment. It’s so slow, it’s like not having a slave at all.”  
  
Carolyn smirks and Herc raises an eyebrow.   
  
“That’s surprising,” Carolyn says. “Why’d you keep him if he’s so useless? It’s no money lost if you give him back.”  
  
Douglas sighs and shakes his head. “Because, and don’t think you’ll ever hear me say this again, I’m lazy. Housework is simultaneously the most boring and tedious undertaking anyone could partake in. Slight help is better than nothing.”  
  
Arthur runs in then, a lemon of unknown origins in his hand. “Maybe I can help him! When do we get to meet him?”  
  
Arthur, of course, has little regard for social protocols; he treats every slave as his best friend - his own were as important to him as family.   
  
Douglas pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get to meet it, Arthur. I’m surprised it’s even come out of its room in the past day. The last thing it needs is a large dose of Arthur-ism, you’ll just terrify it further.” After seeing Arthur’s face he amends himself. “At least not yet.”  
  
Carolyn’s slow-spreading smirk perplexes Douglas and he chooses to ignore it. Just then, the phone rings, alerting the crew to their customer’s arrival.   
  
“Well,” Carolyn says as she grabs her uniform jacket. “If you want to bring him along to meet Arthur at any time I have no problem with it. We could always use the extra help. Besides, he can’t possibly impede you from doing your work - you take care of that yourself.”  
  


* * *

  
Douglas thinks about the conversation in the portacabin for the entirety of the trip, and for the entire ride home. He’ll admit it to himself, he’s confused by Carolyn’s words, her and Herc’s knowing smirks, as if they’re privy to some secret that’s flying right over Douglas’s head. So he kept a slave that others would have sold immediately, or worse. How does that fact elicit the type of responses that they gave him?  
  
He shakes his head as he pulls into the driveway. As he steps out of his car, a few things begin to permeate his field of thought. The first is that it’s unusually sunny for a late April afternoon, not that he minds; Douglas loves the sunshine. The second is that the yard is immaculate; the grass is cut, the bushes trimmed, and the flowers recently watered.   
  
To be honest, Douglas is extremely surprised. He hadn’t expected the slave to be able to complete all this. He unlocks the door and is hit with the scent of fresh cooked salmon as he walks in. His slave is nowhere to be seen but the floors are vacuumed and Douglas can hear the washing machine working from down the hall.   
  
He enters the kitchen looking for the source of the scent. The adjacent dining room is where he finds it; a steaming plate of salmon and a glass of ice water are there sitting on the table. The dining room is also where he finds his slave, kneeling next to the table, head lolling in slumber.   
  
Ignoring his straining legs, Douglas kneels in front of the slave and nudges it, far gentler than he had originally intended. The slave jumps, eyes wide as it reels backwards.  
  
“Oh god. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry. I was waiting and I just. I fell asleep. Only for a minute! I swear! Only for a moment please don’t-”  
  
Douglas raises a hand to silence it - a poor choice, in retrospect, as the action causes the slave to flinch out of habit. “I told you, Martin, that I can cook. Not only that but that you don’t have to be awake when I am. If you’re tired: sleep. I won’t have you collapsing on me. Furthermore, you don’t need to wait up for me.”  
  
“I apologize, sir,” the slave says, not taking its eyes from the floor. “I was finished early with my chores. I thought you’d want me to do something. This is all I could think of. I’m sorry.”  
  
“That’s enough apologizing.” Douglas groans as he stands. He extends a hand to help Martin, but the slave doesn’t seem to notice it. It struggles to stand, its injured leg shaking as it pulls itself up.  
  
“Where in the world did you get this salmon at?” Douglas asks, moving to sit in front of the meal.   
  
“The fridge was quite empty, sir. I don’t know what you like, but my old...my old master. He liked salmon. So I went to the shops. I told them I was your slave, they said they’d charge you later. I hope that was alright, you never gave me orders but I thought...”  
  
“Did you walk?” Douglas nearly shouts.  
  
Martin flinches. “Um...yes sir,” it whispers.   
  
“Martin good lord, I told you I’d do the shopping. That can’t have been good for your-” Douglas stops, eyes widening as he sets his fork down. He hadn’t meant to say that. When did he start worrying about his slave’s health?   
  
“...Sir?”  
  
Douglas flattens his lips into a straight line before he says, “So is your leg alright, then?”  
  
“Yessir.”  
  
“Good. Then you’re dismissed. Goodnight.”  
  
Martin backs away slowly. “Thank you, Master. Goodnight.”  
  
Douglas nods. He thinks for a moment and before he picks up his fork again, he says, “And Martin? Thank you. This looks great.”  
  
Though he tries to hide it, Douglas can hear the small gasp. And though Martin tries to turn away, Douglas can see his eyes brighten as he lifts a hand to his mouth. He manages a nod before he quickly leaves the room.   
  
Douglas nods in return and eats his salmon. It’s delicious.


	4. Chapter 4

Martin sleeps late the next morning; it’s not surprising, considering how much work he’d done over the last couple of days. Douglas, in the mean time, makes a heaping plate of pancakes using the wisdom of the cookbook and the batter that Martin had recently purchased.   
  
He makes entirely too much, telling himself that he’s going to save it for later. In reality, he’ll end up offering some to Martin. He’s not quite sure what possessed him to do so, but by the time he’s set the steaming plate on the table, he doesn’t even care. The slave has to gain some weight somehow - it’s entirely too skinny.  
  
Twenty minutes into his meal Douglas hears a clamoring upstairs, followed by the distinct sound of a door slamming open and limping footsteps down the stairs. When Martin appears in the kitchen moments later, Douglas is working hard to hide his chuckling.   
  
“I overslept. I’m s-s-so sorry, sir. I’m sorry. I-”  
  
Like the night before, Douglas raises his hand to stop the onslaught of stammering. “Really, Martin, this is getting to be too much. I told you to sleep if you need to, don’t make me order you back to your room. Now sit and eat. Do you like pancakes?”  
  
The slave whips its head around to the plate of pancakes and its brows furrow in confusion. It immediately retreats to its usual stance, back straight, arms in front, head down. “I’m, er, I’m not sure. Sir.”  
  
Douglas very nearly chokes on his mouthful of bacon. “You’re not sure if you like pancakes?”  
  
The slave shakes its head slowly.   
  
“My god I knew slave houses were rough but that’s ridiculous. Sit down and eat, then, if you’re hungry.”  
  
Martin turns and makes to kneel next to Douglas’s seat. Douglas stops it before the slave strains its leg.   
  
“Not there, you berk. At a seat. How do you expect to reach the serving plate if you’re on the floor?”  
  
Martin halts and shoots a glance at the empty chair across from Douglas’s, looking distinctly uncomfortable.   
  
Douglas pushes himself back from the table, causing Martin to flinch, though not as much as usual. He should really learn not to make such sudden movements.   
  
“Do I have to do everything myself,” Douglas says, overtly pretending to be put out so that Martin is aware he’s joking.   
  
He grabs the boy’s wrist, careful of the still-fresh lacerations and rope burns, and leads the slave to the empty chair, gently pushing it down into it. Once Martin is properly seated, Douglas slides the chair forward, deposits three pancakes on the empty plate, and sets the syrup within reach.   
  
“There. Not so hard, is it? I would’ve poured the syrup but I find that’s a very personal preference.”  
  
Martin, at the moment, is performing a near-perfect imitation of a fish out of water. His slave’s mouth is open in the shape of a perfect ‘o’ and its eyes are wide; it looks as if it wants to protest what just happened but doesn’t want to disobey Douglas.   
  
Douglas sits back down in his own seat and continues eating. “Go on then,” he says, pointing with his fork. “It’ll get cold otherwise.”  
  
Daintily lifting its fork, the slave eyes the older man warily. “Sir. I’m sorry but the table is for humans, why am I here?”  
  
Douglas splutters, quickly gulping down some milk lest he choke on his bite of pancake. He pounds his chest with his fist. “You are aware that you’re human, aren’t you,” Douglas asks, staring at the boy with what some might call concern.  
  
His slave places its hands on its lap and looks around. “I’m a slave, sir. I thought it was generally accepted that slaves aren’t...human.”  
  
“Well it’s not ‘generally accepted’ in this household. Now eat. A strong wind can blow you away and then what will I have for my troubles?”  
  
Douglas picks up his empty plates and walks to the sink, secretly watching Martin take  _his_  first bite. The boy, chews it for a long while before finally swallowing. As he does, his eyes close; a look of contentment crosses his face. There’s no smile, but it’s as peaceful as he’s looked in days. As he turns back to the sink, Douglas finds a small smile on his own face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah! Done with the "it" and onto "he". I had that touch solely for Douglas's transition, and I hope I haven't made anyone uncomfortable with it. It was definitely a little difficult to write.
> 
> Also, I should really get to my homework. I'll have the rest of this posted either by tonight or tomorrow :).


	5. Chapter 5

Days later, Douglas is halfway through his cookbook when he he hears the sounds of birds singing outside. He looks out the large bay window and is met with the sight of yet another lovely day.   
  
He sets his book down and stretches. "Martin!" He calls, standing as he waits for the slave to appear.   
  
Martin dashes around the corner - as much as he's able to - with a full basket of Douglas's laundry. "Yes, Master?"  
  
"It's a beautiful day, why let it go to waste...let's do some gardening; I’ve heard it's suppose to relax a person."   
  
Martin shuffles, moving the basket from hand to hand. "I can do it. I mean. I didn't think I needed to today. But you don't have to get up, sir."  
  
Douglas waves his hand. "Nonsense. I've always wanted to try it. Now, then..." He stops, eyeing Martin. "Are those the only clothes you have?"  
  
Martin nods. Douglas should have realized sooner; it's not as if Jason arrived with a suitcase.   
  
"Well that just won't do, you'll die of heat stroke if you work in that. Here." Moving forward, Douglas takes the basket from Martin's hands, rummaging through for a lightweight t-shirt. "None of these will fit you, I’m sure, but it's better than a thick black shirt." He continues to search until he finds a pair of shorts with string ties as well. "There we go, put these on. They'll have to do until I can take you shopping."  
  
Martin looks almost scared of the clothes in Douglas's outstretched hand - fearful and distinctly suspicious. Douglas sighs.   
  
"This isn't a trick. Here, take off your shirt."   
  
Martin hesitates. Then, with complete resolve, quickly pulls off his t-shirt, refusing to look at Douglas once its off.   
  
Douglas realizes that he’s been deluding himself with the idea that he had gotten a good, all-encompassing glimpse of the abuse Martin had suffered at the hands of his last master by just seeing his arms. The now-yellow bruises and scarring cuts could be considered kind to what Martin hides under his shirt. He drops the clothes in favor of walking around the now-nervous slave, surveying his back.  
  
His front and back are covered in several deep gashes, all obviously made from a whip, all extremely recent. Douglas is sure that underneath the more recent marks are scars from past beatings as well. His chest and lower back are colored with deep, purple and black bruises and Douglas doesn’t have the slightest idea what could have caused them. Douglas moves forward, gently touching the bruised area, causing Martin to flinch and hiss, though he tries to hide it, like usual.   
  
“Why didn’t you tell me your ribs were injured. They might even be broken,” Douglas says it like a question, but he knows the answer, and Martin realizes that. Martin didn’t say anything for the same reason he didn’t complain about his leg - he didn’t think he was worth the trouble it would take to fix anything.   
  
Continuing his analysis, Douglas finds burn scars (in the obvious shape of cigarettes), some more recent than others, mottling Martin’s shoulders, stomach, and arms. Along his upper arms, upon closer examination, Douglas finds long, jagged scars that only a bone protruding through skin can cause.   
  
The sight of the twenty-something with so many torturous wounds turns Douglas’s stomach, threatening to make him sick. The only thing that stops him from throwing up then and there is the thought that Martin will try to clean it up.   
  
“Take of your trousers too,” Douglas says, still looking at Martin’s back.  
  
Martin visibly stiffens, a minute shaking starting beneath Douglas’s fingers.   
  
Douglas corrects himself. “Not for that, Martin. God, just...no. I want to take a look at your leg. I should’ve treated you ages ago, I’m sorry.”  
  
His slave relaxes, sparing him a glance as he quickly pulls of the tattered jeans, leaving himself standing uncomfortably in nothing but his pants while favoring his injured leg. Douglas carefully takes his hand, leading him to the nearby couch.   
  
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He leaves to search for a first aid kit. He hadn’t ever had a need for it - neither him nor his ex-wife ever beat their slaves - but it was handy to have one, just in case.   
  
When Douglas returns, he pulls a footstool over, seating himself on it in front of Martin. The slight role reversal does nothing to help calm Martin down; he looks as if he’s about ready to offer to trade places with Douglas at any point.   
  
“Martin I need you to relax, I didn’t complete medical school but I went through enough of it to know what I’m doing. You’ll be fine. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to. Ok?”  
  
Martin, grinding his teeth, slowly nods.   
  
Douglas takes that as all the consent he’s going to get and directs his attention to Martin’s wounded right leg. There he finds a deep knife gash on his thigh and a shin that looks slightly crooked.   
  
“Jesus, Martin, you’re lucky this hasn’t gotten infected.” Douglas reaches down, palpating his lower leg. “What happened here?”  
  
When the room remains silent, Douglas looks up, noting the way Martin is biting his lip and refusing to look in Douglas’s direction at all. His eyes are slightly bright, but no tears seem forthcoming yet.   
  
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to; it might help me treat your wound, though.”  
  
Douglas watches Martin for a few moments more before grabbing his supplies and setting to work on the knife wound. Martin speaks a few seconds in, surprising Douglas and causing him to jump.  
  
“M-m-my master wasn’t a very nice man, sir. To anyone. He, um. He was into the black market. He got in trouble with people. Er, bad people. They came to the house. They’d never really met him before so he just...” Douglas looks up when Martin cuts off.   
  
“It’s ok, really. You don’t need to talk about it.”  
  
Martin shakes his head and continues on. “He tried to trick them. He put me in some of his clothes, cut my leg and broke it so I couldn’t run. I was...I was so scared. It was the first time I’d wanted to - to run in a long time. But I couldn’t. And they found me. They knew immediately but took me anyway. They thought he’d want to try to get me back. When it became obvious that he didn’t care they sold me.” Martin cuts off his story with a choked sob, holding his hand to his mouth as he looks unseeingly past Douglas.   
  
Douglas curls his shaking hand into a fist, reaching forward with the other to run his fingers through Martin’s hair. He has no idea if the action will calm him or rile him more but he doesn’t want to sit by and do nothing right now. Martin stiffens minutely but eventually relaxes into the touch, closing his eyes and forgetting himself for a moment.   
  
After some time, Douglas continues his treatment.   
  
“You’ll remain a cripple for life if you keep walking on this leg; it’s probably already healing poorly. For now I’m going to splint it but we can go and get it casted properly when we go shopping. I want you to stay off of it as much as possible until we can.”  
  
Martin moves to object but stops himself.   
  
Douglas smiles. “I can handle the chores for a few days, it’s fine.”  
  
Martin nods and allows Douglas to continue his examination. It takes the better part of an hour before he’s done, and when he is, Martin is a study in white bandages. Douglas has wrapped his ribs, all of which, upon closer inspection, seem to not be broken - though some are fractured - he’s disinfected and bandaged every cut and rubbed ointment on some of the nastier bruising.   
  
Douglas groans as he stands, hearing his knees pop as he stretches.   
  
“We’ll wash your clothes, so put on the ones I picked out for you for now,” Douglas says as he hands Martin the pile he’d dropped earlier.   
  
“I’m actually still in the mood to garden,” he continues, lifting the basket. He eyes Martin. “Remember what I said: stay off that leg as much as you can. I can’t confine you to the couch though. You’re welcome to join me outside or to go lie down in your room. Or stay here. I just want you sitting.”  
  
Martin looks at his hands in his lap. “Which would you prefer, sir?”  
  
Douglas rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Oh you could use some vitamin D. It’s not often we see such a nice day in the spring time. Come outside with me. But!” He turns and points a finger at Martin. “Don’t do any work you can’t do sitting down. I’d prefer you just sat by while I worked, actually, but you’re stubborn and it seems to be in your nature to help.”  
  
Douglas takes the basket to his room, setting it on his bed for later, before he returns to grab Martin and go out back.   
  
“The front looks great, thanks to you,” he explains, “but there’s so much extra room out here, the least we can do is set up an area for my own personal vegetable garden. I’ll have to make a list of items to get when we’re out shopping for your clothes and getting your cast.”   
  
He pulls a chair around, indicating that Martin should sit. The boy does, though only after long moments of deliberation.  
  
Douglas sets to work finding a suitable area for his garden. He asks Martin’s opinion every so often, filling the rest of the time with idle chatter, occasionally asking mundane questions simply to get the boy talking. Nearly an hour and a half into moving rocks and turning soil, Martin joins him, obviously jumping out of his skin with the need to assist.   
  
They keep chatting as they work, Martin not saying much except answering questions while Douglas continually finds topics.   
  
“My mother never liked letting the slaves cook. Which was nice since she used to make the best filet mignon. To this day it’s one of my favorite meals,” Douglas says, chuckling at a memory. “Do you have a favorite meal, Martin?”  
  
Martin considers. “At the slave house, they’d always make us chicken when they had extra money, sir. The breast kind with the...” he trails off. Douglas blinks and averts his attention away from the soil to the slave. He finds Martin standing straight, looking directly at the sky.   
  
Douglas eyes him for a moment, but Martin is unperturbed, staring fixedly at the atmosphere. Douglas follows his stare, but all he can see is an aeroplane coming in from the south. They’re not too far from Fitton airfield, but it’s so small that hardly any planes fly in. When they do, specifically from this direction, it’s loud, especially if they’re large like this one.  
  
Douglas watches the plane get closer and closer, and as it’s about to pass over the house, he turns back to Martin.   
  
He’s smiling.   
  
Martin’s lips are parted in wonder and excitement and a small smile has appeared on his face. When the noise of the plane finally makes its appearance, he lets out a small laugh, never taking his eyes away from the flying machine.   
  
Douglas straightens, unable to take his eyes off of Martin. When the aeroplane finally departs, Martin closes his eyes, sighing. He opens them and makes eye contact with Douglas, maintaining it for a moment - the first time he has in the entirety of his stay. He realizes his faux pa and quickly looks away, stammering out an apology.   
  
Ignoring the platitudes, Douglas says, “I didn’t know you liked aeroplanes.”  
  
Martin smiles just a bit more. “I, um, wanted to be one, sir. When I was little. Til I was nearly five.”  
  
“Wanted to be one?” Douglas laughs. “What happened when you were five, then?”  
  
“Found out I couldn’t be one,” he looks off into the direction that the aeroplane went. “So I told myself I’d be a pilot instead.”  
  
Douglas watches Martin’s now-shaky smile.   
  
“I was sold into slavery when I turned ten, sir. It wasn’t until I was first sold at seventeen that I realized I’d never be able to fly in - let alone pilot - an aeroplane.” Martin quiets, looking distinctly embarrassed at having shared so much information. To Douglas, it shows that he trusts him, and that makes him glad.   
  
“Well you’re wrong about one thing, Martin.”  
  
He looks up, coming dangerously close to meeting Douglas’s eyes again.   
  
“I happen to fly an aeroplane. It’s not very nice, but it gets us by. Our next flight in three days is a cargo flight, meaning no passengers. And, as it happens, my boss has already given the go-ahead for you to join us.”  
  
Martin’s face as Douglas talks continually shifts into an expression Douglas might dub unadulterated glee. The boy tries to tamp it down but he can’t seem to help it when his head perks up and his mouth opens in shock.   
  
“What do you say?”  
  
For the third time that day - the third time that Douglas has ever seen - Martin smiles. No...Martin  _grins_. 


	6. Chapter 6

Their first stop the next day is to the small hospital in Fitton specifically in service for slaves. A lot of people don’t care enough to bring their slaves by, others only bring them so as not to lose money if they die. Douglas suspects he’s one of the only ones here bringing his slave for no other reason than to ease Martin’s pain. He wonders what Carolyn would say if she knew.   
  
Outside of the building is a group of anti-slavery activists. He hadn’t realized that it was Saturday or, as it’s known to many, protest-day. Many of the abolitionists have Saturday off of work and they spend it picketing in front of buildings owners are known to frequent.   
  
Douglas sighs. For how much a hospital like this charges, one would think they could provide better security.   
  
Martin limps close behind, obviously uncomfortable with the amount of people. If there’s one thing that Douglas has noticed Martin hates, it’s conflict. The slave is completely terrified of it.   
  
Douglas takes the lead, pushing through the crowd, keeping a hold on Martin’s wrist so as not to lose him.   
  
“You sick bastard!” one woman yells.   
  
“Look at him, the poor child.”  
  
“Burn in hell!”  
  
“Imagine yourself in his shoes!”  
  
Douglas ignores them - it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. If these people knew how he truly treats Martin, they may not be so quick to judge. True, the fact remains that he still has a slave in the first place, but he hasn’t, and won’t, lay a hand on him.   
  
He wonders, then, when he decided he’d be keeping Martin long enough to make such a grand declaration, even if it’s only in his head. He finds he doesn’t really care.   
  
When they finally make it through the doors, Martin is practically clinging to Douglas, his hand holding tightly to Douglas's jacket sleeve, and breathing heavily. Douglas stops, allowing Martin to calm himself before they make their way through.   
  
“I can be present or I can leave for the examination. Which would you prefer?”  
  
Martin is quiet when he says, “Stay. Please. Sir.”  
  
Douglas nods, leading the way to the desk. Luckily they’re some of the only people here considering the crowd in front. The doctor leads them back, quickly examining Martin before he sends him in for scans for his leg.  
  
With the radiation in the room, Douglas is forced to wait outside with the doctor while the technician works.   
  
“Most people don’t bring in such disobedient slaves,” the man, one Dr. Brason, comments.   
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Brason gives him a skeptical look. “You don’t have to try to hide it from me; most of those wounds came at one time. Obviously he did something wrong.”  
  
Douglas sighs. “I can assure you Martin is the most obedient slave that I’ve ever owned. Those wounds came from his old owner.”  
  
Brason chooses not to comment, instead walking over to talk to the technician.   
  
From over his shoulder he says, “It looks like a complex fracture to the tibia, made with some kind of hammer-like object. It’s already started to heal incorrectly. I’d say the best course of action for now is to cast it and avoid surgery. As it’s been left alone for so long, your slave will likely continue to have a limp, Mr. Richardson.”   
  
“That’s all fine. Just do what you need.”  
  
“Before we get the cast on, I want to stitch up its leg, as well.”  
  
“His.”  
  
The doctor turns. “What was that?”  
  
“Sorry, just. Stitch up  _his_  leg. I’d prefer those pronouns.”  
  
Dr. Brason purses his lips and raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. “As you wish, Sir. Now, may I stitch i-his leg? Or do you want to handle that treatment as well?”  
  
“No that’s fine. Can I be in there with him?”  
  
“It’s unusual, but if you want to, you can.”  
  
Douglas thanks him and follows him into Martin’s room. He takes the liberty of explaining the situation to Martin, who simply nods. He doesn’t need to give consent but Douglas asks for it anyway, eliciting a curious look from the doctor.   
  
When they leave the hospital, Martin has a large circular cast running along his left leg. It’s able to be removed and for now sits on the outside of his trousers. The cast has corrected his limp, though only slightly.   
  
Their next stop is to the clothing store. They skip right by the slave-specific shop and head over to Douglas’s usual haunt where he learns that 1. Martin doesn't know what size of clothes he wears and 2. Martin's shoes are two sizes too small for him.   
  
Douglas proceeds to buy him several outfits for simple days working around the house, some for working outside, pajamas, boots, tennis shoes, and a nicer outfit for his trip with MJN.   
  
He buys gardening gloves and hats for the two of them at the next shop along with seeds and various pots of flowers.   
  
They're on their way home when Douglas makes an unexpected stop at the airfield - he wasn't even aware that he was on his way there until they'd already turned in.   
  
They sit in the car for a few minutes. Eventually, Douglas says, "It's a small airfield, we probably won't see much, but we don't have much to do back at home, might as well relax."  
  
Martin doesn't say anything in response, but smiles at his feet from where he sits. They climb out and sit on a nearby hill.   
  
Douglas is right, not many planes fly in, but every time one does, Martin smiles exactly like he did the day before. Douglas alternates between watching him and watching the empty sky, smiling every time Martin does.   
  
He doesn't want to - or isn't ready to - admit it just yet, but he's coming to care for the boy much more than he'd originally intended. Moreso, in fact, than any slave he's ever owned before.


	7. Chapter 7

Martin is distinctly nervous as they approach the airfield two days later. Watching him sitting in the passenger seat, holding their shared bag, it’s obvious to Douglas that his agitation is very nearly overriding his excitement.   
  
“Martin if you hold that bag any tighter it could very well disintegrate.”  
  
Martin starts, looking guiltily down to his hands. He makes a conscious effort to loosen his grip. “I’m sorry, sir,” he quietly says.   
  
Douglas shakes his head. “I wasn’t chastising you, I’m just joking. You should calm down, they’re all very nice people, at least one of which is very excited to meet you.”  
  
From the passenger seat, Martin nods, still unconvinced. He may have come to trust Douglas but he’s still extremely guarded - even fearful - of other people. Obviously Martin believes that Douglas is some aberration, that the rest of society is full of sadistic people. And, while Martin trusts Douglas, he doesn’t yet fully believe that Douglas won’t stand by as others hurt him. He wonders what Martin’s last owner allowed others to do in order for the boy to be so suspicious of every person Douglas speaks to.  
  
Douglas sighs and gingerly pries the bag from Martin’s hands. “Come on,” he says, “we’re already twenty five minutes late, there’s no need to call more of Carolyn’s wrath upon us than is strictly necessary.”  
  
That was very obviously the wrong thing to say; Martin stiffens with trepidation.  
  
Douglas snickers. “I’m joking, Martin, again. Really, don’t tell me I’ve got to teach you how to identify jokes.”  
  
Martin looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, Master, my last owner was not fond of jokes.”  
  
Sobering, Douglas nods. “Well come on then.”  
  
They walk to the portacabin, Martin’s limp coupled with his apprehension making them slow. When Douglas finally throws the door open, Martin is behind him, holding loosely onto Douglas’s coat sleeve much like he did at the hospital.   
  
“It would seem your tardy streak has returned, Douglas,” Herc says, not looking up from his paperwork.   
  
“Hercules,” Douglas says in greeting. When the man doesn’t lift his head, Douglas lifts his hand, pointedly coughing into it.   
  
Herc sighs. “What could possibly be so impor- Oh. Well what do we have here.”  
  
Douglas moves out of the way of the door so that Martin can get all the way in.   
  
“Herc,” Douglas says, “this is Martin. Martin, this is Hercules the berk-ules, my co-pilot.”  
  
“Captain,” Herc corrects, standing up. He extends his hand for Martin to shake but Martin doesn’t seem to understand. He whips his head around to stare at Douglas, eyes wide with the classic deer in headlights look.   
  
Douglas makes eye contact with Herc, minutely shaking his head. Herc drops his hand and returns to his desk.   
  
“Might I ask why you’ve decided to grace us with Martin’s presence,” Herc asks, carefully avoiding looking directly at Martin for too long.  
  
Douglas huffs and takes a seat at his desk, indicating that Martin can take the vacant chair nearby, eliciting a pleased look from Hercules.   
  
“I discovered that if I leave him at home alone he’ll work very hard to ignore my orders and strain his leg,” Douglas says, giving Martin a mock glare, though the boy doesn’t seem to notice. “And, a few days ago, I discovered that Martin has always wanted to fly planes.”  
  
Herc looks both surprised and extremely sad. “Well lucky for you, Martin, Douglas happens to be a pilot. A dubious one, but a pilot all the same. And even better, our infamous CEO happens to be a real pushover. I can assure you that she’ll welcome you on any flight.”  
  
Martin lifts his head, surprised at Herc’s words.  
  
Carolyn comes out of her office then. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Hercules. I truly hope you were referring to your  _other_ pushover CEO because this one certainly isn’t. Now.” She turns from Herc to Martin, back to cowering in his seat. “Martin, yes?”  
  
Martin looks briefly to Douglas and nods.   
  
Carolyn smiles. “I knew Douglas would bring you by. Believe it or not, your master here is what some might dub a big teddy bear.”  
  
Douglas scoffs. “A teddy bear to whom, exactly?”  
  
A more predatory smile crosses her face as she looks at Douglas. “Well to your slave, obviously. You don’t usually bring them by.” Carolyn turns once again to Martin. “I could tell he likes you more than the others. Call it a woman’s intuition.”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Douglas can see Martin give him an inquisitive look. When Carolyn looks at him as well, Douglas just rolls his eyes, completely unflustered.   
  
“I’ll go get Arthur,” Carolyn says as she walks to the front door. “I sent him on a mission to find Dirk. I told him that he’d requested a cup of Arthur’s special coffee.”  
  
Herc laughs as she leaves. When he catches Martin’s confused look, he explains. “Dirk is hard to find at the best of times. Arthur will be looking for hours if we let him.”  
  
Martin nods as Herc goes back to his paperwork.   
  
“Sir,” Martin murmurs, seemingly afraid of disturbing anyone.

Douglas, now with his feet propped on his desk and reading a new novel, inclines his head towards Martin. “Hm?”  
  
“Is there something you’d like me to do?”  
  
Douglas eyes Martin from over his book. “No, Martin. Sit. I told you that you need to take it easy as your leg heals, or didn’t you hear that?”

Martin lowers his head. “You’re right, sir.”  
  
Douglas shakes his head and turns a page, choosing to ignore Herc’s smile.

Minutes later, Arthur bursts into the room, causing Martin to jump.  
  
“Oh this is brilliant! Douglas’s slave! He talked about you a bit, and I couldn’t wait to meet you this is...this is...”  
  
“Brilliant?” Douglas provides.  
  
Arthur nods vigorously. “Yeah!”  
  
Douglas chuckles and stands. Martin is right behind him.   
  
“Arthur, I’m sure you’ve already heard, but this is Martin. And Martin, this is Arthur or, as some people have come to see him, our own personal ray of sunshine.”  
  
Martin inclines his head, taking his usual posture.  
  
Arthur reaches forward, tugging one of Martin’s hands into his own for an extremely jarring handshake. Martin is shocked, so much so that he forgets to be afraid of the newcomer, if only for a moment. He smiles at Arthur, but immediately wipes it from his face and returns to his submissive posture.   
  
Arthur bends down, trying to make eye contact with Martin while he’s looking down. The action startles Martin but he doesn’t move.  
  
“Arthur, good lord, you’re scaring the poor boy. Back up, take a deep breath, and speak to him like a normal human being,” Carolyn says as she returns.  
  
Listening to his mother’s advice, Arthur takes a large step backwards, breathing in and out several times and opening his eyes with a very serious expression of concentration on his face. He takes one more large breath and continues his tirade.   
  
“My name is Arthur Shappey and I’m the stewart here for MJN, the CEO is my mum and the plane is hers too. I have a dog named Snoopadoop and I don’t have slaves anymore but I miss them, especially Lucy, she was nice and made delicious pie. She tried to teach me how to cook once but Mum told me never to go near the kitchen after Lucy almost cried, though I don’t know why. Do you think you can teach me how to cook, Martin?”  
  
“I...”  
  
“Arthur,” Carolyn snaps. “I thought I told you that our family doesn’t subscribe to hurting slaves.”  
  
Arthur looks confused and after contemplating her words, shrugs and turns back to Martin. Carolyn just rolls her eyes exasperatedly while Douglas and Herc both laugh.   
  
“So do you like to fly, Martin?”  
  
Douglas cuts in then. “He’s never flown before, Arthur. But he’s wanted to be a pilot since he was young.”  
  
Arthur’s look of excitement is comical. “No way! That’s brilliant! Do you have a pilot’s license?”  
  
“Of course he doesn’t, Arthur,” Carolyn snaps good-naturedly.   
  
“Oh. Well we could pretend that you’re a pilot. I mean, you’ll be flying in a plane, that’s close enough for now. We could even pretend that you’re the captain! That’d be fun! Ok let’s do that. I’ll call you Skip, and you keep calling me Arthur and there! You’re the captain now. I pretend to fly GERTI all the time, I’ll show you how and we can do it together.”  
  
Martin looks both scared, hopeful, and amused and Douglas can’t help but laugh. Behind her son, Carolyn chuckles and Herc laughs from his seat too. Arthur is then drug away by Carolyn for various reasons (the top of which is to give Martin some space) and they’re left alone for some time until the cargo arrives.   
  
When they finally board GERTI, they all let Martin go first (a completely inappropriate gesture to many), each of the crew members smiling as Martin slowly ascends the stairs, reverently touching the plane as he boards. He’s quiet as he explores, barely even breathing while he looks around along the aisle ways. Douglas lets him observe for quite some time before he grabs his wrist and takes him to the cockpit.  
  
“When we’re in the air, you can come up, but you’ll have to sit in a passenger seat while we take off.”  
  
Martin nods, still speechless. He stares in wonderment at the control panel, lifting his hand as if to touch it but stopping before he gets too close. Herc moves around them and takes his seat, getting GERTI prepared while they wait for Martin to take everything in.   
  
He breathes in shakily as the plane starts up, watching as the lights on the panel spring to life. Finally, after GERTI is sat to idle, Martin closes his mouth and nods.   
  
“Thank you Master,” he whispers, still looking at the panel.  
  
Douglas smiles, moving so he can get out and be directed by Arthur on where to sit. As the door closes, Douglas hears Arthur start to explain some game to Martin for them to play.  
  
He takes his seat next to Herc and they take off. As they’re ascending, Hercules spares him a sideways glance.   
  
“So are you going to free him, then?” he asks, watching Douglas’s reaction. He’s surprised to see the man’s face stay completely nonchalant.  
  
“I hadn’t thought about it, really.”  
  
“Oh sure you have, at least a little. No one treats a slave they plan on keeping that well.”  
  
Douglas purses his lips. “You know as well as I do that freed slaves are targets, as are the people that release them,” he murmurs.   
  
Herc nods. “That I do. The whole sordid business would have been abolished decades ago if not for how ingrained it is among the socially elite. I’ll admit that from what I’ve seen, he’s almost safer with you as a slave than anywhere else.”  
  
The cockpit is silent as they ponder that.   
  
“I’m glad, though,” Herc eventually says.  
  
Douglas looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Care to elaborate?”  
  
“I was surprised to hear that you kept him, but pleased. It seems the experience has taught you a thing or two about selflessness. That is, learning that taking care of ones house should not take precedence over enslaving a human life.”  
  
Douglas narrows his eyes. “The last thing I need is some high and mighty speech from you of all people, Hercules.”  
  
“I’m not trying to put you down, just pointing out an observation. It’s sweet, really, how much you seem to care for him.”  
  
Douglas chooses not to comment.   
  
Martin enters a few minutes later, and from there, the rest of the flight is spent in relative silence, occasionally broken by explanations by the pilots of mechanics. Douglas is surprised to find that Martin already knows a lot of the basics of flying a plane.   
  
“I used to study it a lot before-. Well. Before,” he explains distractedly while watching the cotton clouds part in front of GERTI’s nose.  
  
Douglas and Herc share a look, choosing not to say any more.   
  
Slowly Douglas is coming to realize just how much the slave trade can ruin a person’s life, and he hates that it’s taken forty some odd years and a simple, small, ginger slave to open his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Egypt is ridiculously hot, as usual, though Martin doesn’t seem to mind. Walking through the airport close behind Douglas, Martin is trying to sneak peeks all around him despite having his head lowered. While Douglas would almost prefer just letting the boy walk around and view as he pleases, he knows others aren’t so open minded to such bold conduct from a slave.  
  
Through Arthur, Douglas had learned that this was the first time Martin had ever left the country, which makes him glad that they have to stay for an extra day to wait for the new cargo. He plans on exploring a bit with the slave in tow. He’ll have to make sure to bring some sunscreen though, the ginger will burn to a crisp in the African sun.  
  
They’re just about to exit the building when Douglas hears his name; a question at first, and then shouted with more fervor. He turns towards the voice, surprised at hearing another British accent in such a small, out of the way airport.   
  
A woman is walking briskly over, striding confidently and gracefully (considering the crowd) over to him, a polite smile plastered on her face. Her auburn hair is medium length, tied into an artistically-messy bun. She’s wearing a provocative yet professional suit with near three-inch heels. Douglas guesses that she’s around thirty, perhaps slightly older. He doesn’t recognize her at all.   
  
She stops in front of him with her full red lips poised in a false-pout. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me,” she says. Her airy voice rings a few bells, but not enough for full recognition.  
  
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Despite what many have come to believe, I am, in fact, getting older and as such, against all my wishes, my memory tends to falter at the best of times.”  
  
She laughs, a small giggle that makes Douglas smile just a bit. He hadn’t thought of dating anyone so soon after his divorce but now it’s seeming like a real possibility.   
  
“No, it’s alright. I thought you might not remember me, we only talked briefly. We met at the pub a few weeks ago. My name is Helena.”  
  
Douglas feigns remembrance; truth be told, nights at the pub are ones Douglas very rarely recalls the next day, let alone weeks after.   
  
Helena laughs. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”  
  
Douglas smirks. “I recall the name, though not much else.”  
  
“It’s understandable, you were quite drunk at the time, though still very suave,” she flirts, briefly touching his arm.  
  
“I usually am,” he says, giving her a charming smile.   
  
“You told me you were getting divorced. Is everything alright now?”  
  
“Oh better than alright, actually,” he says. “It was a good riddance, really.”  
  
“Glad to hear it.” She grins and looks down at her watch. “Oh dang, I have to run, I’ll miss my flight at this rate.” She pauses, looking him up and down. “It’s good to see you, Douglas. I was afraid we wouldn’t see each other again after that night.”  
  
Douglas nods, reaching into his wallet for a business card to write on. “Here’s my number if you ever want to chat. Obviously I’ve a surplus of free time now.”  
  
“Hm. Perhaps I will. Goodbye, Douglas.”  
  
He inclines his head and watches as she rushes back to where her own slave is standing with her things. He turns back to Martin who hasn’t moved an inch during the entire conversation. He feels strangely bad, not having introduced him, even though he knows it’s not expected conduct, nor is it welcome by most.  
  
“Sorry about that, Martin,” he says, leading the boy out towards a taxi. The others have already gone on ahead, leaving Douglas to fend for himself.  
  
“It’s no problem, sir,” Martin murmurs, not taking his eyes off of the ground.  
  
They seat themselves in the taxi where Douglas begins planning the next day’s activities. Oddly enough, past the first few moments in the taxi, his new potential girlfriend doesn’t even cross his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

The Egypt trip is the first of many that Martin attends. Over the course of the next few months, the entire crew, even Carolyn, incorporate him into the company. He even joins them on passenger trips sometimes. Douglas finds himself less and less willing to leave the slave home alone while he’s gone, and not for the usual reasons. No, he’s not afraid of Martin breaking or stealing anything while he’s gone; he’s not really sure what it is, really. He’s simply not comfortable leaving the boy all by himself.   
  
Weeks pass; Martin gets his cast off (with a warning that his leg will continue to be very weak) and eventually the two month mark that Douglas had originally intended to wait for has come and gone without a second thought.   
  
His wounds have healed to scars or have disappeared altogether. Similarly, his bruises, if not gone completely, have faded to dull greens and yellows.   
  
They’ve found a certain kind of peace, so much so that Douglas sometimes finds himself forgetting that Martin is a slave in the first place. Somehow, while talking to him (the boy has gotten much chattier now that he’s not scared of every moving thing) he completely disregards the ominous black collar and sees Martin as any other friend.   
  
Yet, he discovers, he’s still reluctant to free him. He wasn’t kidding when he told Herc it was too dangerous. Powerful people don’t like slaves receiving freedom. Many, when they see free slaves, will re-capture them, despite the prominent tattoo on their collar, claiming a myriad of reasons for doing so. Others will find a way to kill them, and the previous owners who freed them in the first place will often find themselves facing a similar fate.   
  
And, underneath the logical argument lies a more sentimental fear - he doesn’t want to see Martin go. For one thing, the boy is hopeless on his own. Besides that, Douglas hates an empty home, he always has - it’s why he remarried so quickly after his first wife.   
  
One thing’s for certain, Douglas can no longer deny Herc’s claim that he cares nearly unconditionally for the slave.   
  
“Master?”  
  
Douglas is pulled from his consideration by Martin’s voice. The slave is sitting across the table from him - a position that it had taken Douglas a full month to coerce Martin into - looking at him quizzically.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
Douglas smiles. “I was just thinking.” He eyes Martin, determining whether or not the idea that’s just popped into his mind is going to work or not.  
  
Martin tilts his head in the endearing way that he does when he’s trying to figure out one of Douglas’s schemes.   
  
Douglas chuckles. “I’ve just thought of something. A game of sorts. Do you want to try?”  
  
The corner of Martin’s mouth tilts up as he blushes. “I always lose games, sir.”  
  
“Well I want to try, at least for a bit. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Douglas gives his most reassuring smile and Martin concedes.   
  
“Alright.”  
  
“I want to make a bit of switch in our daily lives,” he raises his hand to placate Martin’s surprise. “Nothing too drastic, just with the way I speak. You call me Douglas - not Master or sir, just Douglas. And in return, I’ll call you sir.”  
  
Martin’s gaping look is priceless, his mouth moving without any words coming out.   
  
Douglas laughs wholeheartedly. “I’m not kidding,” he says. “Here, I’ll start. Can you get the dishes, sir?”  
  
Martin starts when Douglas uses the word, staring at him wide eyed in the same way that teenagers stare at each other after hearing a particularly enthralling piece of gossip. Douglas is immensely pleased that he was able to convince Martin to start making eye contact with him - the look in his eyes is perfect.   
  
“Go on,” Douglas says conspiratorially. “Try it.”  
  
“Oh...um..ok, er, D...hm...Douglas.” When he says it, he claps his hand over his mouth and giggles.   
  
Douglas smiles; Martin’s opened up so much over these past months and it never fails to amuse him.   
  
“Very good,” Douglas says, sitting back.   
  
Martin glances at him, smiling at the plates as he picks them up.   
  
Douglas’s phone rings as Martin does the dishes. He sees Helena’s name on the screen and smirks; they’d been getting to know each other more and more over the months - he likes her, more than he’d ever liked his previous wife anyway. That’s not saying much, but it’s at least something to go on.  
  
“Helena, it’s been too long,” he answers. He notices Martin glance at him from the corner of his eye. He dries his hands and leaves to do another chore while Douglas listens to Helena speak about her week.  
  
“Hm? I’m sorry I missed that.”  
  
Helena laughs from the other end of the phone. “I was saying I think it’s time we went on a proper date, Mr. Richardson. What do you say?”  
  
Douglas smirks at Helena’s request while simultaneously trying to look around the doorway into the other room to catch a glimpse of Martin.   
  
“Sounds lovely,” he says. “How does tomorrow sound?”  
  
“Delightful.”

~*~

Donning his jacket, Douglas turns to Martin. “I’ll only be gone for a few hours, tops. Everything looks good so there’s no need to do anything more tonight. Go to sleep if you’re tired, don’t wait up for me.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“You understand...what?”  
  
Martin blushes. “I understand...Douglas.”  
  
Douglas ruffles his hair, a habit he’d picked up in these last few weeks. “Keep doing that, I’m sick of hearing ‘sir’ and ‘master’. My name is a much better alternative.”  
  
He turns and opens the door to walk out to Helena’s car. She’s standing on the driver's side, leaning against the sleek convertible wearing her usual tall heels, a mid-thigh black skirt and a fitted purple blouse. Douglas took a moment to appreciate her get-up before turning back to Martin.   
  
“Really, though. Don’t force yourself to stay awake. You’re a terrible morning person when you stay up late.”  
  
Martin nods and shuts the door behind him.  
  
“Helena, you look splendid,” he calls as he approaches.  
  
She giggles and thanks him. “So that’s it - er - him, then?”  
  
“Martin?”  
  
“Yes. The slave you always talk about.”  
  
Douglas turns back to look at the house. “Come now, I don’t always speak about him.”  
  
Helena chuckles as they climb in. “Well you don’t constantly go on about him, but you do more than usual. It’s quite charming, really. Shows you’d make a good father, with how much you worry over him.”  
  
Douglas cringes at the bluntness. “Oh I don’t know about that. Besides, it’s not as if Martin’s my son - or anything close for that matter; I don’t treat him well enough for that to even be considered.”  
  
She glances at him as she drives. “Some might disagree,” she says before she changes the subject entirely, leaving Douglas to ponder the implication of her words.  
  
Despite the serious start, the date goes well; Douglas arrives home pleasantly tipsy at the end of four hours. He’s glad to see that Martin took his advice and is in bed. Although, as he walks by his room, he hears the distinct sound of tossing and turning.  
  
He can’t pretend not to have noticed: Martin has terrible nightmares. They wreck him, waking him midway through the night and not allowing him to return to sleep. Douglas can always tell when one of “those” nights has passed, as Martin always sports dark circles under his eyes yet stubbornly refuses to mention it.   
  
Tonight, persuaded by his slightly-drunken stupor, however, he decides he wants to try to remedy the situation. Douglas pushes the door open slowly, careful not to wake him (as that would defeat the purpose). Douglas walks to the small bed and kneels down next to it.   
  
Martin is flipping around, fighting the blankets that he’s under. He’s murmuring something, though Douglas can only make out a few pleas that he’d rather not hear in such a broken voice.   
  
“Martin,” he mumbles, whispering various words of comfort. When that doesn’t have an immediate effect, Douglas places his hand on Martin’s head, not unlike he’d done a few hours before. Martin stiffens in his slumber, but as Douglas softly runs his hands through the curls, he calms, breaths deepening as he relaxes.   
  
Douglas continues the comfort for a few minutes more. Then - and later he’ll blame this entirely on the alcohol - he places a soft kiss on the slave’s forehead. He stands quickly and leaves, not noticing Martin’s eyes, bleary as they are from being awoken from a deep sleep, watching him as he goes.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning finds the kitchen in silence as Douglas eats his extremely greasy breakfast alone at the table, pointedly ignoring anything that might have happened the night before.   
  
He looks up when Martin enters, chewing in silence and nodding to indicate that Martin can speak.  
  
“Can I get you more orange juice, er...”  
  
Douglas smiles slightly, taken in by Martin’s ever-present nervousness. “I told you to keep calling me Douglas,  _sir_.”  
  
Martin nods. “Can I get you more orange juice, Douglas?”  
  
“Why yes indeed, sir.” He lifts his glass, holding it out for Martin to fill.   
  
Martin takes a seat at the table, pouring himself a glass as well. He looks as if he’s about to say something but decides against it. A few more minutes of this same action leaves Douglas on edge. He considers suggesting a movie for the both of them to watch but stops himself, recalling the words of Helena the night before.   
  
Douglas stands abruptly. “I’m going to make some use of the office today. I’d...rather not be disturbed,” he says, leaving the room before Martin has a chance to respond.  
  
The next few days pass in the same uneasy climate punctuated only by the occasional date with Helena. Douglas will smile at the smallest of what he’s dubbed Martin-isms but, upon realizing it, will catch himself and retreat inward, generally into solitude.   
  
He hasn’t concerned himself up to this point with the fact that his amount of care for Martin may be considered unusual. In fact, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, really, had Helena not mentioned something.   
  
Once he’d been made aware, though, he sees that he hadn’t realized how many of his thoughts Martin occupies, hadn’t realized how many of the boy’s mannerisms he’d found charming, hadn’t realized how completely smi-no. If nothing else, Douglas Richardson is not falling for a slave, not falling for  _Martin_  of all people. Exluding all else, the boy - yes, the  _boy_  - is young enough to be his son.   
  
Douglas cares for him out of...of pity, and a sense of duty instilled in his family for generations - nothing more. At least, that’s what he tells himself every time he’s out with Helena, every time he smiles at Martin’s nervousness, every time he finds himself unable to look away from the slave’s stupid grin.   
  
It’s what he tries relentlessly to make himself believe even when Helena calls him out to the pub they met at, telling him ominously that “they need to talk”.  
  


* * *

  
It’s near six when he walks into the pub feeling much like he did the day his second wife asked him out for coffee, only to reveal that she’d finally filed for divorce: apprehensive yet resigned.  
  
He takes a seat across from her, watching absently as she orders a round for the two of them.   
  
She looks at him very seriously, steepling her hands. “Something’s wrong with you,” she says. She poses it as a statement, but seems to expect an answer.  
  
Douglas coolly raises an eyebrow. “Not that I’m aware.”  
  
Her lips flatten - the first agitated expression he’s seen from her yet. “I thought we had promise, I really did. Our first date was fun, didn’t you think so?”  
  
Douglas crosses his legs and stares at her, waiting for the usual platitudes. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’. ‘This wasn’t meant to be.’ Et cetera, et cetera.   
  
“It’s Martin, isn’t it?”  
  
Her question startles him. His eyes widen minutely as he takes in her disapproving look.   
  
She laughs, throwing her head back and and shaking her head as she looks at the ceiling. “I should’ve known, the way you’re always going on about him, about  _it_. I had figured, I had said to myself ‘oh no, he’s far too proud to fall for some pathetic slave’.” She meets his eyes. “Especially one as pitiable as that ginger thing.”  
  
Douglas slams his hand on the table, alarming the waitress who’s just returned with their drinks.   
  
“Martin is far from pathetic. I won’t hear that kind of talk about him again.”  
  
Helena shakes her head and scoffs. She raises both her hands in defeat. “And there it is. I wasn’t completely sure, but now I know.”  
  
“You don’t know anything.”  
  
“You keep telling yourself that. I’ve seen it these past few weeks - you realized it yourself and now you’re scared. You’ve been pushing me away. The poor creature, stuck with a master like you who can’t even keep his own thoughts under control. I take it that it’s only been raised for domestic chores, then?”  
  
Douglas freezes, waiting for her to elaborate.   
  
“Oh please,” she barks out a laugh. “It’s a slave, Douglas. If you want to, you can fuck it. You hardly need consent.”  
  
Douglas places his drink on the table, his shaking hand nearly spilling its contents all over the floor.   
  
She looks at him, narrowing her eyes. Then she backs up quickly, seemingly not wanting to be anywhere near Douglas all of the sudden. “My god. You’re in love with it. That’s horrendous.” Her look of disgust twists her features into something hideous.   
  
Unable to move, Douglas stares at his drink. He should’ve known her calm, kind demeanor was too good to be true. He’d known, as the weeks progressed, that he was being unfair to her. He’d planned on saying something, perhaps taking a break. He’s glad he’d waited for her to make the first move - at least now he knows her true personality.   
  
“I suggest you leave,” Douglas murmurs very quietly. If she happened to miss it, she’d be sure to see the danger present in his shaking shoulders. “Now.”  
  
She huffs and stands. “Well. Best of luck, then,” she says, sarcasm practically dripping from her lips. She places her half of the tab on the table. “Good riddance,” she spits as she strides out of the pub and out of Douglas’s life.   
  
“Funny,” he says. “I was just about to say the same thing.” Then he stands and hucks his glass against the opposite wall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this is where that "minor violence" tag makes its appearance :).

Douglas arrives home sporting a black eye, a cut cheek, and a paper bag full of booze. Martin is out doing the shopping, as he’d said he would be before Douglas left. Despite Douglas’s best efforts, Martin still does the shopping at night, alone, while walking. He claims that it calms him - that he actually likes to do it.   
  
Douglas doesn’t care right now. He’s confused, he’s angry, and already slightly drunk. The ‘slightly’ part of that sentence he chooses to remedy almost as soon as he walks through the door. He downs the first bottle as he makes his way to his room, opening the safety deposit box. In there he finds his divorce papers, a few other official documents, the papers formally declaring Martin as his and, finally, the remote to Martin’s collar.   
  
He palms the device, turning it over and over in his hands. It’s truly funny how such a small thing can bring someone’s freedom, or their death.   
  
The front door opens and Douglas goes out to greet him.   
  
Martin shuffles in, walking directly to the kitchen with the heavy load of shopping without noticing Douglas. He hums a tune that Douglas vaguely recognizes as Arthur’s current favorite song as he unloads the shopping.  
  
“Martin,” Douglas slurs, scaring the boy with his volume.   
  
Martin whips around, a concerned look immediately crossing his face. “Douglas. Are you alright?”  
  
A surge of affection swarms in Douglas’s chest, followed immediately by panic and, finally, anger.   
  
“No, Martin, I’m not bloody alright,” he says testily.  
  
Martin’s eyes search his face, lingering on the injuries there and he moves cautiously around Douglas to the hallway where he climbs the stairs.   
  
“Let me get you some paracetamol or something. It’ll help the pain.”  
  
When Douglas doesn’t respond, Martin turns, gazing searchingly at him. He stops. “On second thought, coffee might be better.” He makes to go around Douglas again so as to get down the stairs, but Douglas’s arm bars his progress. That’s when Martin notices the remote to his collar still in his hand. “Er...Douglas?”  
  
Douglas snaps. His drunkenness coupled with his affection, his confusion at that emotion, his anger at all of it - at the knowing glances, at Helena’s words, at his own combobulated feelings - all of it culminates into a single moment. His hand removes itself from the wall and grabs Martin harshly by the hair, the movement a complete antithesis to his usual actions.   
  
He slams the boy heavily against the wall, ignoring the sharp gasp of pain as his head connects.   
  
“What gives you the right,” Douglas spits, shaking Martin back and forth to punctuate each word. “Who the  _hell_  gave you the right?”  
  
Martin’s eyes fill with involuntary tears and he shakes his head. “Douglas, please stop.”  
  
“Stop calling me that,” he roars, throwing him hard against the opposite wall. He grabs Martin’s wrist and throat to hold him in place, not realizing, even as Martin gasps for breath, just how hard he’s squeezing. 

“Do you know how long it’s been since I got you?”  
  
Martin chokes.  
  
“DO YOU?”  
  
Martin shakes his head, unable to speak.   
  
“Seven months, now. A full seven months. I was supposed to sell you!” He ignores the look of devastation that crosses the slave’s features as he continues. “Two months was all I needed. Then I could buy a proper slave, one that wasn’t so...so  _abused_  and  _small_  and worthless!” He releases Martin’s wrist to hold up the remote.   
  
“Jason told me to kill you. By god I should’ve. Then  _this_  wouldn’t be happening. I could do it now, even; finally treat you like a proper slave. Right now I could take your life. I’m  _supposed_  to have the power to do so.” Martin’s eyes are full of terror, and he lets out a shaky breath when Douglas throws the device down the stairs.   
  
“But I can’t. God _damn_  it!” He pulls Martin from the wall and tosses him aside. He vaguely registers his own slow-building terror underneath his overwhelming drunken haze as he watches in slow motion as Martin scrambles to stay up, tripping in the process. His arms pinwheel and he falls hard, right down the stairs.   
  
Douglas hears a dull thud, followed by a sharp yell of pain, but his mind is cloudy, unable to comprehend what’s just happened as he slowly calms down. He can’t bloody think - can’t do anything. He squeezes his eyes shut, holding his head. He opts to ignore these recent events as he sits there breathing heavily before he walks to the bathroom to throw up and eventually fall asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

When he wakes on the floor the next morning, it’s with absolutely no memory of the night’s events. It’s one of Douglas’s worst qualities, really, his brain’s determination to forget anything that happens after alcohol is consumed.   
  
He sits up slowly, instantly regretting the action as the room swims violently sideways, threatening to tip him backwards once again. On the ground near where his head was just lying, he sees a full glass of water and a few pills. Despite the pain in his head he smiles, grateful in Martin’s ability to know just what he needs.   
  
He downs the water and the pills and makes his way slowly downstairs, keeping his hand shakily on the wall as he descends. When he finally makes it to the kitchen, he’s surprised to see a plate of his favorite hangover remedy: greasy eggs and bacon. Upon closer inspection he finds that it’s a bit cold, but he doesn’t mind, greedily eating it up as soon as he sits.   
  
It takes him thirty minutes to finish the meal with his headache occasionally impeding his movements. Once he finishes, though, he feels better for it. His head is slightly clearer and the light in the room is no longer so blinding. He slowly realizes as he sits after his meal that the clock says 11:34; it’s the latest he’s slept in years.   
  
He stands to find Martin, wanting to find out what time he got home the night before when he sees the collar remote lying ominously on the ground near the stairs. Pure panic constricts his chest for a moment before logic prevails, telling him that as long as the breakfast and pills were waiting for him, nothing happened to Martin. And why would it? Douglas can’t imagine a scenario in which he’d be so drunk that he’d threaten Martin in any way. Perhaps he was considering freeing him.   
  
He looks around, the idea at the forefront of his mind. He hasn’t seen Martin at all this morning. Perhaps he truly did free him, perhaps the boy made him his things out of kindness and then left to live his own life. 

The thought makes him inexplicably sad, moreso, even, than he was when he found out about his first divorce.   
  
He takes the stairs at the pace of a sick turtle, moving cautiously as the increased light from the window at the end of the hall hits him like a stone wall. As he reaches the landing, he finally notices a minuscule patch of red on the wall - a detail that he'd completely overlooked on his way down. His eyes widen, considering the implications of this newest stain.   
  
“Martin!” he calls, suddenly fearful of what truly might have transpired the night before.   
  
He rushes as best he can to the slave’s room, throwing the door open with unnecessary force. Martin is there, sitting on his cot not unlike the first day he was here. Except this time he’s not crying, just staring wide-eyed and blankly at the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice him at all.   
  
Douglas gulps, tamping down trepidation as he moves forward. The sound of a squeaky floorboard pulls Martin from his stupor. His head whips up and after he sees Douglas so close, he violently flinches away.   
  
Douglas stops, hand outstretched in the middle of the room. “Martin,” he whispers.   
  
Martin’s eyes travel fearfully to the remote still in Douglas’s hand. Douglas tosses it aside, making sure that it leaves the room completely. Martin visibly relaxes, though only minutely.   
  
“Di-did you need something, s-sir?”  
  
“Martin, I...” He stops, completely unable to form a coherent sentence. He’s what? Sorry? That sure means a lot. He obviously threatened Martin and, now that he’s gotten a closer look, can see that he also hurt him. The boy is favoring his previously-injured leg, holding it with his right arm, his wrist completely encircled in black bruises. Douglas can’t see the injury that left the blood on the wall but he can see a distinct bruise on Martin’s neck that indicates strangulation.   
  
He swallows, completely lost. For the first time in decades Douglas wants to break down, but he knows now is no time for self pity.   
  
“Do you,” his voice catches, “do you mind if I treat you? I understand if you don’t want me near you but we need to get you lo-”  
  
“It’s fine,” Martin says, voice soft. He’s watching Douglas closely but doesn’t flinch again when Douglas moves.   
  
“I’ll be right back.”  
  
Douglas walks out into the hallway and closes the door behind him. He leans against it for a second, trying to calm himself down. He picks up the discarded remote and takes it back to his room. Next he finds his phone and dials while he gathers his supplies.   
  
“This better be good, Douglas,” Carolyn says as she answers.   
  
Douglas tries to speak but no words come out.   
  
“Douglas?”  
  
Finally the emotion bubbling up inside of him crashes through. He says her name in response, his voice wrecked with the weight of the situation.   
  
Carolyn’s voice picks up an octave, much like it did when Arthur tripped down GERTI’s stairs.   
  
“Douglas. What’s happened?”  
  
He takes a breath and bites his lips. “I need you to come and get Martin,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out.   
  
Carolyn, though still on edge, calms a bit when he speaks. “Why?”  
  
“I...” He closes his eyes hard. When he opens them he breathes out and stares at the ceiling. “He can’t stay here right now. I can’t...He’s not...”  
  
She cuts him off, getting right down to business. “Is he hurt?”  
  
“Yes,” Douglas chokes. “God not...not much but...”  
  
The line is silent for a moment as Carolyn considers. “Are you treating him?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“How long, then?”  
  
“I don’t...um. Let’s say forty five minutes.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
Just as she’s about to disconnect, Douglas stops her. “It might be preferable...if you didn’t bring Arthur.”  
  
Carolyn acknowledges his statement and hangs up, at which point Douglas gathers his things and heads back to Martin’s room. He finds the boy in the same position, although not nearly as blank as he was before. He looks up when Douglas walks in; he refuses to make eye contact with him but doesn’t flinch as Douglas approaches.   
  
“I need you to tell me everything I did,” Douglas quietly says, not daring to talk at a louder pitch.   
  
Martin considers him for a moment and looks away. “Head, wrist, and throat, sir. I twisted my leg too, when I fell down the stairs.”  
  
Douglas purses his lips and doesn’t move. “Is that really it?”  
  
A nod.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes.” Said on a breath, so quiet that Douglas nearly misses it. He moves slowly forward then, taking Martin’s head in his hands.   
  
He feels around for the wound that must have caused the blood on the wall, and finds a small laceration. Luckily, it would seem, it doesn’t need stitches. Douglas washes some of the blood away and bandages it as best he can without having removed any of his curls.   
  
From there he continues to work quietly. He notices Martin’s eyes close; the boy looks peaceful for now, though Douglas doesn’t know what that might mean.   
  
“I’ve called Carolyn,” Douglas says as he wraps Martin’s wrist.   
  
His eyes snap open, and he looks at Douglas searchingly before turning his head away. He seems surprised, and that confuses Douglas more than anything.   
  
“What’s wrong,” Douglas asks, hoping beyond hope that Martin will be comfortable talking to him.   
  
But in response he just shakes his head and stares at the floor.   
  
“You’ll stay with her from now on,” Douglas continues. With that he sees Martin’s surprise again, and he refuses to meet Douglas’s eyes.   
  
“Why?” he whispers, almost to himself.   
  
Douglas freezes in the middle of his ministrations. “ _Why_? Martin you cannot be serious.”  
  
Martin bites his lip but doesn’t look at him.  
  
“Martin I hurt you. What I did was completely inexcusable.”  
  
“Sir, you were-”  
  
Douglas holds up his hand. “Don’t you dare say drunk; I said inexcusable and I meant it. Look,” he meets Martin’s eyes briefly before he moves onto the boy’s leg. “There’s an old belief that what you say when you’re drunk is always close to what you want to say when you’re sober. I’m sure I said some awful things.”  
  
He looks for Martin’s head nod before he carries on. “I don’t believe that saying, not at all. Whatever I said, I don’t mean, at least I don’t think so. Honestly Martin...” Douglas leans back, running his hand through his hair.   
  
“I stopped really considering you my slave a while ago.” He takes a breath. “I care about you; you’re my friend. More than that, honestly, I-” He stops himself, shaking his head.   
  
He returns to Martin’s leg, wrapping it securely. “Friends don’t hurt each other, especially not physically. What I did was horrendous. I took your trust in me and shattered it and for that I’m truly very sorry. I just hope that...Well I hope that doesn’t cause you to not want to trust anyone else. There are a lot of good people in the world. Carolyn and Arthur are some of them.”  
  
Martin looks as if he wants to say something but closes his mouth with a click of his teeth. Douglas stands and retrieves a bag from a nearby closet, filling it with Martin’s belongings.   
  
“Is there anything else you want besides your clothes? I saw you eyeing my flight manual a few days ago - you can take it if you want it.”  
  
Martin shakes his head no and Douglas concedes; of course the slave doesn’t want anything that might remind him of Douglas. He makes a mental note, though, to have Carolyn run and get one for the boy.  
  
Carolyn, to Douglas’s surprise, comes up to the door when she arrives, taking Martin’s bags back to the car. She leaves him there for a moment to allow them to talk before he leaves.   
  
“Martin I really am sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean much but I hope that, perhaps one day, you might be able to forgive me.”  
  
Martin turns to him, boldly meeting his eyes head on. “No one’s ever asked for my forgiveness before.”   
  
Douglas frowns. “That’s a shame - it’s a very important thing to have.”  
  
Martin smiles, just a bit. Douglas can see him thinking before he straightens up, visibly gaining confidence. “You already have my forgiveness si-Douglas. You were drunk and I know you said that’s not an excuse but it’s a better one than my last master had and I just. I...” He looks away for a second and takes a deep breath.   
  
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says. He lifts his jacket out of Douglas’s hands and throws it over his arm. “The tricky part is making them right.” 

~*~

Douglas stares after Martin as he walks away, he watches Carolyn pull out of his driveway and down the street. He continues to stare in that direction for long minutes after they’ve disappeared while he contemplates Martin’s words.   
  
He nods once, shuts the door firmly behind him, and proceeds to dump out every bottle of liquor that he has stashed around the house. From there he makes a couple of calls, does a bit of research, and makes an official decision.   
  
Alcohol makes him angry, makes him forgetful, makes him weak. Starting now, Douglas Richardson, aged forty seven, is going to be completely and totally sober.


	13. Chapter 13

Douglas is invited out the next day by Herc. He’s sure that he and Carolyn have been chatting but he couldn’t really care less at this point. They agree on a small restaurant (far from any local pubs) for lunch.   
  
While there, Herc doesn’t mention Martin at all. A fact that makes Douglas immensely grateful. Douglas, for his part, briefly explains his newfound resolve, a conversation that leaves Hercules smiling proudly, like some doting parent.   
  
“You can take that smile right off your face, Hercules,” Douglas says mock-warningly.  
  
“Why? Am I not allowed to be proud of a friend?”  
  
Douglas scoffs. “Friend. That’s rich.”  
  
Herc sobers. “Well if not friends, then what are we?”  
  
Douglas looks him over. “Mortal enemies? Rivals? At least that’s the impression I’d always had.”  
  
Hercules smirks. “Well alright then. As mortal enemies, I must say I’m very proud of your decision. Take it as you will.”  
  
Douglas spins his water around in its cup, staring at the cyclone. “Forty seven years. It’s a bit pathetic when you think about it.”  
  
“Better late than never.”  
  
“Too late, I think.”  
  
Herc stares at him over his glass. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”  
  
“Martin?”  
  
He smiles. “Who else?”  
  
Douglas keeps swirling his glass. “I did. I really did.”  
  
The sit in silence for a few moments before their food arrives, at which point Herc brings up their latest eccentric client. They don’t speak again about Martin for the rest of the afternoon.  
  


  
~*~

Their next flight is two days later and Douglas is glad to see that Carolyn didn’t bring Martin along. Though he discovers as he sits that Arthur can’t stop talking about the young slave. 

“And then we watched a movie in my room and stayed up really late. In the morning, he made pancakes. Did you know that Martin makes really good pancakes, Douglas? They’re brilliant.”

Douglas, who’s been watching Arthur babble on an on up to this point, smiles. “He’d made them a few times.”

“And?”

“And they were quite brilliant, I must agree.”

Arthur grins. “I’m gonna miss him when he leaves, though. Maybe I can get him to come over every few days to make pancakes anyway.”

Douglas narrows his eyes. “Why would he leave?”

“Well cuz he’s only just visiting. Mum said that Martin’ll probably go back to your house in a couple weeks.”

Douglas looks away. “Your mother was wrong, Arthur.”

“But-”

“She was wrong.” With that, Douglas stands and goes out to GERTI, leaving behind a very puzzled steward.

  
~*~

Nearly a month later, the crew of MJN - namely, Douglas and Herc - are confused to find that Carolyn is late, extremely so. They’re on standby for the entire day, but the fact that their fastidious CEO isn’t at the portacabin precisely on time, or thereabouts, is perplexing. 

Douglas occupies his time with making paper aeroplanes while Herc reads. When the door does finally slam open, heralding Carolyn’s arrival, it’s nearly three hours after their agreed-upon arrival time.

Douglas tosses an aeroplane at Carolyn. As it hits her on the shoulder he says, “Carolyn, you appear to be quite late. Perhaps your alarm clock was switched out with my own as I was here perfectly on time.”

Carolyn holds the door for Arthur and promptly slams it shut as soon as he enters. 

“I am not in the mood Douglas. Those damned ‘public servants’ held me for over two hours longer than what I was expecting.”

Douglas raises an eyebrow. “Public servants? You mean government employees?”

“Yes who else would I bloody mean? That was completely ridiculous.”

Herc sets down his book and leans back in his chair. “Might I ask what you were doing fraternizing with government employees?”

“I was not  _fraternizing_  I was filling out paperwork. No wonder no one ever frees their slaves; it’s not the threats they fear, it’s the ceaseless questions they ask at the office.”

Douglas perks up, dropping his paper plane. “Excuse me?”

Carolyn looks at him and calms a bit. “I freed Martin this morning. And though the whole ordeal was ridiculously painful, I’m glad I did. You know as well as I do that it was a long time in coming.”

Douglas nods slowly. “Yes but we can’t ignore the danger...”

“I spoke with him about the danger,” she snaps. “I sat him down and asked if it was something he wanted. I told him the risks, the hardships, and the discrimination that he’ll face. I told him he could come to me if he needs any help and after some consideration he agreed. We took him to the offices this morning where they removed his collar, tattooed him, and placed him in a small hovel of a flat over at Parkside Terrace until he can get up on his feet. There. End of story.”

“Ah,” Douglas says, looking at his desk. 

He’s happy, he truly is. He’s glad that Carolyn had the determination and the guts to go through with such a monumental task. Yet, he can’t help the tightening of his chest when he realizes that, with that single action, Martin is no longer tied to him at all. The boy could leave the town, the country even, and Douglas would never see him again. At least when he was at Carolyn’s he still had some chance. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Herc and Carolyn exchange long looks but he chooses to ignore them. 

“Well,” he says as he stands and collects his things. “Seeing as how we’re probably not having a flight today, I’m leaving.”

“Douglas you ca-. Oh. Alright. We’re on standby tomorrow, though. I expect you to be here right on time.”

Douglas smirks. “Don’t count on it,” he says as he sweeps out the door. In all the weeks of his fledgling sobriety, Douglas has never before wanted a drink as strongly as he does now.


	14. Chapter 14

Over a year later - fifteen months to be exact - Douglas find himself home again, finally. He’s just returned from a string of twelve flights around the globe and is exhausted. He pulls a whiskey glass from the cupboard, filling it with his favorite brand of orange juice before he sits down heavily on his couch. It’s only three in the afternoon in Fitton but to Douglas, it feels like three in the morning.   
  
His eyelids are drooping and the glass nearly falling out of his hand when the doorbell rings. He groggily stands, setting the glass aside as he moves to answer it. When he does, he finds Martin there, smiling brightly and holding up a small piece of plastic.   
  
Douglas is surprised speechless, even more so when he realizes just what that piece of plastic is. It’s a pilot license. _Martin’s_  pilot license.   
  
“I did it,” he says. “Seven tries but I finally got it.”  
  
Douglas just stares, unable to comprehend what’s happening.   
  
Martin lowers his hand and looks at him quizzically. “Carolyn did tell you, didn’t she?”  
  
Douglas mutely shakes his head, still looking Martin over. He’s gotten more fit; he’s still as skinny as a stick, but he’s filled out quite nicely. His ginger hair is combed and his face and arms are completely clear, free of blemishes except for the scars of years past. Most of all, Martin’s grinning - something Douglas hardly ever got to see outside of when he blatantly provoked it. His confidence, too, has obviously had a real boost with this feat, so much so that Douglas nearly forgets about the prominent block letters on his collar:  **F.S.** , tattooed to mark his official status.  
  
Martin sighs from where he is and scratches his head. “I wonder why she didn't tell you.” He meets Douglas’s eyes, shyly now. “I’m sorry, this is weird, isn’t it? I thought you would’ve known.”  
  
“Well then explain,” Douglas says, still not moving.  
  
Martin nods determinedly. “Carolyn set me free awhile ago. When she did she agreed to pay for my CPL exams as long as I could take Herc’s job, since he’s been recruited by another airline. Um...Air Caledonia I think. Anyway, it took me seven tries, mostly because the proctors didn’t like the idea of a former slave flying aeroplanes and now...I’m...here.” He slows down, watching Douglas as he speaks.   
  
“I thought Carolyn would have kept you posted but now I can see she didn’t. I’m really sorry, I guess this is strange; me just showing up at your door all of the sudden without warning but, I mean, I wanted to talk to you. And I’d heard you were doing really well with your sobriety and I wanted to congratulate you but I didn’t know if you even wanted to see me. I should probably just g-oomph.”  
  
Martin is cut off by Douglas springing forward and pulling him into a tight hug. He’s stiff at first, a fact that scares Douglas. But after a moment, Martin’s arms come up and hold Douglas as tightly as Douglas is holding him. They sit in that embrace for long moments, Martin pointedly ignoring a slight wetness on his shoulder. When they release, Douglas’s eyes are conspicuously dry, but his small slightly-watery smile speaks for itself.   
  
He backs up, letting Martin in. They head to the kitchen were Douglas starts up a pot of coffee for them both, only barely realizing the strangeness of the current circumstance.   
  
They sit at the table in their usual spots, smiling at each other.   
  
“I’m really happy for you Martin. That takes so much perseverance.”  
  
Martin smile grows just a bit more. “Thank you.”  
  
Douglas leans back and sips his coffee. “Carolyn didn’t even tell me Herc was leaving in the first place. Of course I should’ve known that she had some ulterior motive to freeing you.”  
  
Martin shakes his head. “Actually no. Her exact words were that she wants me to feel like I can think for myself, that I shouldn’t have to be afraid of or serve people anymore.” He chuckles. “She even used the words ‘no son of mine’ which took both of us by surprise. In the end, I’m pretty sure she just made the offer because she knew I’d have a hard time making the money to take the tests on my own.”  
  
Douglas smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I really am. If you’re taking Herc’s place, that means you’ll be captain.” Douglas snorts. “You may end up being the first captain that I ever refer to as sir,” he jokes.   
  
They sit there in silence, each staring at their coffee.   
  
“I’m glad too, you know,” Martin says, still staring at his mug. “You took my advice.”  
  
“How could I not.”  
  
Martin shrugs. “I wasn’t sure. Um. I didn’t know if you’d care what I had to say, on that subject at least. I mean, you were so quick to send me away, I thought maybe...”  
  
Douglas reaches forward and sets his hand in Martin’s hair, just like he used to over a year ago.   
  
“Trust me, Martin, when I tell you that whatever you have to say takes precedence over everything else in my mind; your words are what have kept me going. And you should know that having you leave with Carolyn was easily one of, if not  _the_ , hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.”  
  
Martin’s eyes lift and find Douglas’s, searching them for signs of a bluff. He doesn’t find one, and opts for barely nuzzling his head into Douglas’s hand, prompting him to keep running his fingers through his hair.   
  
Douglas smiles. “I never told you before, Martin, I don’t even know if you want to hear it now but,” he takes a deep breath, feeling ridiculously nervous, as if he’s some teenager. “I’ve truly become quite smitten with you.”  
  
Martin gently grabs Douglas’s wrist and removes his hand from his hair. He stands up, never breaking eye contact with Douglas. He walks over, takes Douglas’s face in his hands, and gently kisses his forehead - exactly the same way that Douglas had to him so many months before.   
  
“I’d had a hunch,” he breathes, not moving back.   
  
They stare at each other for long seconds before Douglas lifts his own hands, mimicking Martin’s hold. And for the first time, they share a proper kiss.   
  
They both agree that it’s an action that’s long overdue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! As always I'd love to see comments, either here or on my tumblr :). 
> 
> Thanks for reading~


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